


Monster

by Tanyk (BenLMoore)



Category: call me by your name - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 13,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27756202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/Tanyk
Summary: Oliver is self-disciplined. His mistakes are in the past, societal debt is paid. All he wants is to suffer in peace.When the youngsters trespass on his rural VA property, he shoos them away. Usually.This child makes life difficult.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 116
Kudos: 72





	1. The Boy in the Yard

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated, as always.

“Oliver, there’s another goddamn boy in the yard.”

Usually, his grandmother’s voice doesn’t grate his nerves, but when she’s howling like a rooster, knocking on his door, rattling the knob, Oliver would happily stuff a sock in the woman's mouth. 

“If you don’t tend to it, I will.”

That’s no empty promise. It's a fair warning.

He could ignore the alarm and let Annie tend to it, as she says. That threat compels Oliver to sigh and stop typing. Flow be damned. Solitude and silence shattered. 

Out of his window, there’s nothing to see but the reddening crown of his apricot tree. It'll be rake-season soon.

Boys in the yard. That’s not uncommon, although they've been less of a plague since school started. This summer, there were a few eggings, and some young tyrant dug up Oliver's root veggies. All things considered, it’s a minor offense.

The four digital channels of security footage reveal a fresh problem: a boy in the back yard. A brash little punk eating Oliver's figs.  
  
Nervy bastards. When Oliver Rosen was a boy, he never would have dreamed of loitering on someone's property, snatching the fruit off their trees. 

He's seen all he needs to see. Oliver trades fur-lined slippers for sneakers. If he growls, they run faster. Of course, he has no plan for if he ever catches one. Never happens. They're fast. He feigns slow.

When he enters the kitchen, Annie is at the window with the barrel of her shotgun resting on the windowsill. Oliver takes her side and follows the direction of her sights. Gingerly, he commandeers the gun, empties the ammunition into his palm, and then his pocket. He returns to his grandmother her neutered weapon. 

She asks, “Can’t these little dummies read?”

The fence is plastered in all directions with No Trespassing signs. Oliver removed the ones stating that Violators Will Be Shot signs after the incident. Still, if these children can read, they can't heed. But Oliver can be convincing.

He steps onto the back porch. Damp air, warmer than yesterday, bears a chill. Goosebumps blossom at first sight. The boy returns the stare.

Most kids run at first sight of Oliver. If the freakish height doesn’t work their parents will have warned them to “stay away from that creep.”

_That’s right kiddies. Run._

_Don’t let the big bad mechanical engineer eat your heart._

Rather than run, the boy defends himself with a shouted lie. 

“I didn’t touch anything.”

There’s a catch to his voice, as if Oliver has caught him in the act of molting from youth to manhood. 

Touch, he most certainly did. 

But he's causing no disturbance. It would cost nothing to let a boy hang around, enjoy the garden. 

Even if that were allowed, this yard is not a park. This child is only here because he doesn’t know what’s good for him.   
Oliver knows. He points at the nearest sign. 

The kid looks but doesn't leave. "Yeah, I saw it."

He’s a new one, this boy. At least Oliver has never seen him.   
He’d remember.   
Moon-pale skin, midnight curls. Heart-barb chin. Not much on those bones.  
Life isn’t always easy on such a pretty boy. Oliver shivers and shakes away the errant thought. He points adamantly at the sign. 

“Look, man —“

The kid takes two steps forward. Oliver retreats three, swallowing a mouthful of bile. 

The boy halts, tilts his head, and then approaches again. Testing it.  
As if they were dancing, Oliver steps back. 

Then, he remembers himself.  
With a low, throaty growl, he lumbers after the kid - a stage-worthy impression of Boris Karloff's mummy. Arms extended, eyes crossed.  
The boy takes off like a rocket. 


	2. Chapter 2

The gate slams shut. With his heart pounding in his ears, Elio hops onto his bike. He pumps his pedals to a rhythm like a rapper with a one-line refrain:

“I hate this place. I hate this place. I hate this fucking place.” 

After a thousand loops of that chorus, he’s howling with laughter, wiping hysterical tears from his cheeks with the back of his arm. Can’t believe that giant freak show. It was like being in a cartoon. That massive troll with his arms out like Frankenstein and Elio squealing and running like a 4-year-old. Amazing he didn’t piss himself. 

Too bad that weirdo’s yard is the only decent place in this stupid town.  
The word town is generous. This is a sinkhole. 

That mutant’s backyard is an oasis in a sinkhole. It’s the place the sucks least. 

For one thing, with that 8-foot fence, no one will ever find Elio there. There’s only moss in his front yard, but the back is paradise. You could camp out there and survive forever. 

Apple, cherries, apricots, pears and some kinds of fruit Elio can’t even identify. Like those purple-brown things that look like something from space on the inside. Might have been poisonous, but YOLO.  
Whatever they were - delicious. And so far, he’s not dead.  
And that’s just the trees. 

The guy’s growing carrots, grapes, tomatoes, potatoes.

Best place in this crappy town in this shitty state. Virginia is for losers.

The ironic thing is, three weeks ago, as Elio's dad drove him down this street for the first time, he’d pointed at the fortressed house and growled, “Stay the hell away from there.”

He’d even spat out of the window, as if they were passing some gypsy-cursed cemetery. If that was supposed to make Elio stay away, adults really don’t get how kids tick.

He brakes and balances his bike in the middle of the street in front of his father’s house. 

Not Elio’s. His father’s.  
He will never claim this rundown, paint-chipping, leaky shitcan as his home. His dad is supposed to be fixing it up to sell. That’s the excuse for all the busted drywall and boards with rusty nails all over the yard.

The pick-up truck is in the driveway, which means the old man is home. Elio could sneak in and try to make it to his room undetected. He picks up his feet and keeps riding.

As he rounds the corner, he comes nose to nose with an oncoming car. Their brakes screech against the pavement. Elio raises his left leg in time to keep his calf from being crushed. His back tire scrapes the front bumper. 

The stupid hick driver lays on the horn. Elio returns the country greeting with his middle finger and pedals away, pulse slamming even faster.

Sometimes, he fantasizes about dying, but not in this sinkhole.


	3. Chapter 3

The gate clicks shut. Oliver opens it and pokes his head through to confirm there’s still a No Trespassing sign on the other side. Sometimes, the children steal them. Heaven knows why. What can they do with a sign?

It’s likely just meant to torment him. 

Annie asked him to leave up the Violaters Will Be Prosecuted.  
They would get a dog, but neither wants to deal with the shit. 

Oliver secures the gate.  
One of his persecutors cut through the padlock over the summer. The third one this year. Next time, he’ll purchase in bulk. 

There’s a small mound of cigarette butts and other trash that someone has tossed over. Oliver could check the camera to learn whether it was this new kid, but why bother? 

He’d looked young for smoking. Then again, Oliver had been ten years old the first (and last) time he took a puff of a real live Camel. With Carl, of course. Otherwise, it never would have occurred to Oliver to try at all.

He collects and pockets the trash. 

On his path back to the house, he passes the orbweaver’s web. Over the two years since Oliver's return to South Hill, she’s grown into a formidable predator with an immaculate lemon-yellow abdomen and a leg-span that rivals the size of Oliver’s hand. 

Zebra swallowtail for breakfast.

Oliver declines the temptation to play god by rescuing butterfly or depriving spider. Instead, he watches silently as nature plays out her perfection. 

This is a good peaceful place as long as the rest of humanity stays clear.

Mourning Doves on the roof. A chipmunk scampers past his feet, cheeks bulging with pilfered goods. A blue-tailed skink climbs the orbweaver’s tree and hangs there in suspended motion. Perhaps it regards Oliver with the same holy curiosity as he examines the lizard. On a whim, the man extends an arm to the trunk, creating a new branch for the little animal to explore, if he remains enough for it to feel safe.

Annie steps onto the back porch with her Browning.

“Is he gone?”

Oliver nods. The skink flees. 

“I hope you scared him good.” Annie balks. “What is wrong with people? When are they going to leave us alone?”

When she says us, she means Oliver.

He brought this on them both.  
He doesn’t have to admit that it’s his fault. No need to confess what everyone already knows.


	4. Chapter 4

Elio cruises around the shopping center. Passes the Mexican guys at Home Depot carrying lumber to their trucks.

Past Walmart. Snaking his way between mothers loading babies into strollers and groceries into station wagons. A snot-nosed little kid tugs the hem of his mother’s shirt, whining about something. A few yards behind them, a lollipop lays in an oily puddle. 

Elio splashes through it, crushing the candy.

Suck it up, kid. Life only gets worse.

In response to his growling stomach, Elio wheels and makes an executive decision between McDs, KFC, and Roy’s. With the five bucks he liberated from his dad’s wallet this morning, treats himself to a burger, fries, and a shake. 

The old man ought to give him an allowance. Or Elio ought to get a paper route or something. Is that still a thing? He could mow lawns or something. But there’s probably some yokel who’s already thought of that.

He pedals around aimlessly, letting his supper settle. Passing people’s houses, staring into their windows, but seeing nothing worth slowing down for.  
This dumb day never wants to end. 

Before dark, he rolls down his street again. Passes the evil ogre’s yard. Flips the whole house the bird.  
Passes the house with his father inside. There’s no light on his bike and somebody’s probably going to squish him, but Elio keeps riding into the finally setting sun. 

There’s a park on the other end of town. It’s not as secluded as that giant’s yard, but the dark makes up for that.

The sign prohibits admittance after sundown, but Elio leans his bike against a tree and roams around, pretending he’s a ghost who was murdered and buried in a shallow grave. No one has found his bones and brought his killer to justice, so he haunts the place. It’s a decent game, but kind of lame without someone to haunt. 

Tires scratch over gravel as a car pulls up with the lights low. The engine cuts. 

Under a sliver of moonlight, the ghost of Elio lingers behind trees, slinking closer as a couple of teenagers spill out of the rusty Ford. 

The girl watches the boy pull a blanket from the trunk and spread it on the ground. She’s like a female bird overseeing the construction of a nest. When it’s done, the male spreads a wing to present his handiwork. 

Apparently satisfied, the female kicks off her shoes and roosts in the center of the pallet. The male crawls close and pounces on top of her. Unimpressed, the female shoves her attacker onto his back and chirps some strongly worded reprimands. Temporarily stunned, but undeterred, the male attempts a different approach. 

While the female sits with arms wrapped around her knees, staring toward the baseball fields, the male carefully massages her shoulders. This advance allowed, the male proceeds to kiss the female’s neck, whispering undecipherably.

Meanwhile, the scientist remains undetected as he creeps nearer for a better view. 

By the time he’s close enough to hear the email moaning, she’s on her back with the male between her legs. One wing is around her waist as he attempts to suck her brain out through her beak. The other wing is disappearing up her shirt, revealing pale skin.

The scientist sucks in his gut and slides his hand down his pants. Before he can get a hold of himself, the female bird lets out a horrific shriek. 

Side note: (for science) It’s no fun running with a boner.


	5. BOY IN THE SHED

Time is a malleable construct. Dawn and dusk are real. Otherwise, if it weren’t for work deadlines, Oliver wouldn’t know the day of the week. He begins this particular Thursday morning with a plan to thin the asparagus bed. The task has been waiting since late spring. 

The morning air greets him, slightly brisk. The sky streaked with deep coral as the sun begins its ascent. Oliver snug in hoodie and sweat pants. Annie asleep like a small child in her LaZBoy. Blanket draped over spindly legs. Television blaring, as it has all night.

If he turns it off, she’ll start awake like there’s a burglary. It’s an hour before sunrise. He simply turns down the volume and lets his grandmother sleep with her game show rerun lullaby.

In the half-light, Oliver wanders through the garden, taking cursory inventory of his plants on the way. His fingertips brush a gooseberry leaf. She’d had a slight blight last spring. Keeping a close eye on her this year. 

For this morning’s labor, Oliver requires rake, hoe, and hand trowel. The tin shed door squeaks open revealing a boy coiled like a copperhead ready to strike.

Gasping, Oliver stumbles back, trips over a stone, and lands on his hind-end in the mud. Then he crab crawls backward into his blueberry bush.

If the authorities - or any random neighbor - make a surprise guest appearance and discover a child in Oliver’s shed… 

The consequences are too grim to consider. Oliver hasn’t even made it back to his feet, still having trouble processing what he’s seeing. 

A freaking little boy asleep in his garden shed. 

The kid yawns as he sits up with leaves and dirt in his wild hair. He rubs his eyes and says, “I can explain.”

Oliver leaps to his feet, slams the shed door shut, and holds it closed - trapping the child inside while he takes a moment to think.


	6. Chapter 6

“Homework, Mr. Perlman.”

“I don’t have it,” Elio answers. “I got jumped.”

100% truth.  
Also true: Elio spent the night in a tool shed.  
Probably smells like fertilizer or grass seed. Has the crick from Hell in his neck.

The freak with the great garden had opened the shed door, slammed it shut, and walked away.

Elio’s bike is at the park with his backpack. Instead of going home to shower, he trudged the two miles to school, dragged his sorry ass through the double doors, and dumped himself into his homeroom class twenty-seven minutes after the first bell rang.

“You did not get jumped.” His Algebra teacher’s frizzy mane was like something from a Pixar movie. “You just refused to do your homework.”

To be fair, she might have believed Elio’s story if he hadn’t told various people that he was an orphan, that his father was a professional mixed martial artists, and that his mother was a professional escort. He also told the secretary at the front office there was a mistake in his transcripts and that his real name is Elliot Pearl.  
God knows why he said any of it.  
Sometimes, his mouth does things.

Elio could corroborate his claim with bruises, but that would cause more problems than he wants. Better to accept the 0 for the assignment.

He blanks out the first three classes entirely. Can’t say he actually slept in that shed, so much as rolled around trying to get comfortable.

The lunch bell rings and Elio shuffles in a half-sleep zombie stupor toward the cafeteria. A body that slams against him instantly knocks him awake.

“Still in Loserville?” The jock asshole says and shoves Elio again.

To be fair, Elio brought this on himself. His first day of school, he’d called it Loserville High. Not his best moment.  
Again, the mouth has its own mind, motor, and methods.

Elio bounces like rubber causing an obnoxious clank against the locker drawing attention from everyone in the hall. The next strike knocks half the air from Elio’s lungs. It should hurt, but it doesn’t.

When he laughs, it’s at that. The jock narrows his eyes and hurls Elio even harder, against the cinder block.

No pain.

Light humiliation as a bunch of kids scatter to make space for his floor landing. Elio climbs to his hands and knees, still laughing at how much it doesn’t hurt.

“Freak,” the muscle head says and walks away.

A pair of pink Chucks with hand-scribbled flowers stop in front of his nose. Bleeding, of course, like the inside of his mouth. Elio could spit on the shoes, but swallows the blood instead, giving his empty belly something for breakfast.

It’s that girl.  
The one who never stops staring whenever they have a class together. Marsha or something. She’s got thick, dark hair and a round, patient face. So, what to do about girls who like you?  
It should be easy once you know, but that kind of makes it worse. Nowhere to go but down the toilet.  
Why don’t they have a class about that instead of harping on about World War II?

On the other hand, this girl must be an idiot. What kind of moron is interested in the weakling who keeps getting shoved into lockers? If a girl will settle for that, she’s probably not worth talking to.

In his old school, Elio was a demi-god. Won the Geo Quiz two years in a row. Dominated Odyssey of the Mind. He’d been a big-fish 6th grader in a tiny, privately-funded pond.

In this school, he’s a big-brained suburbanite surrounded by tractor driving yokels. This girl is too stupid to realize that Elio is the scum at the bottom of this school’s ecosystem. He’s a two-legged paramecium.

Anyway, he follows her, because what the hell else is he going to do? Stay kneeling in the middle of the hallway?

Seriously. What do you do with girls?  
Ignore them? Keep them guessing? Pretend not to be interested? Never call them back or something?  
Where did he even hear that crap?  
Probably his dad.  
Immediate mind flush.

The girl points. “I usually sit at that table.”

Elio usually sits in the stairwell and eats where his violent admirers can’t sit on his chest and shove French Fries up his nose. Once is enough.

By the time the girl gets back to the table, all her little friends have scattered as if Elio has the Spanish flu. From their new table, they keep staring, blatantly signaling for their friend to flee - because, as everyone knows being a loser is highly contagious.

“Forget them,” she says.

“Forgotten.”

She smiles as if Elio cracked the joke of the century. Either some girls like wimps. Or else this is pity, which she can stick it right up her twat.

“You want some?”

The female is offering tater tots and Elio’s stomach is groaning for a handful. He takes one and mumbles vague gratitude. His pits itch. Probably sweat.  
Probably shouldn’t scratch.  
Or do girls like that?

“You’re Elio, right?”

He nods.

“I’m Marcia.” Kind of Latin sounding. Mar-cee-uh.

Elio will call her Marsha next time he sees her just to prove he’s cooler than she is.

“You’re from DC, right?”

“No.” He’s from Takoma Park which borders on DC and is a hundred thousand times better than this shit hole.

“Oh. I thought you were.” Marcia eats a bit, looks up occasionally.

Might be waiting for Elio to continue the conversation, but he’s busy tonguing the lacerated skin in his cheek.

Girls are basically creatures from a different planet, disguised to seem human. Even what's between their legs is totally alien. They show diagrams in PE, but that just makes it weirder.

“You live on Fern Street, right?”

Elio nods, craving more soggy tots. He’d rather die than request them.

“I’m not like stalking you or anything.” Marcia giggles and wipes her hair behind her ear. “My sister saw you biking around there and I just thought you might live somewhere close.”

This riveting conversation is burning a few points off Elio’s IQ. He searches the room for an escape. The banality of this girl’s questions and comments remind him of something else.

She asks, “Do you like Halsey?”

Elio counters with, “What’s up with the guy that lives on the corner of my street?”

She gawks as if he’d asked the question in Italian.

“There’s this house—“

“Stay away from there.” Her attitude is suddenly all high-pitched violins and timpani.

“Yeah, I know. I wasn’t going to like—“ Elio looks around.

Marcia lowers her voice, but too late. People are looking at them.

“Seriously. Do not go anywhere near that place.”

“Yeah, but why?” He asks, not even sure why. “Everybody talks so much bullshit around here. I figured you might be different. Just forget it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Gardening is magic. Whenever Oliver is tense or anxious, a few hours with his hands in the dirt resets his equilibrium better than medication or meditation. 

But today, hours after leaving a waking boy inside his shed, he may never leave the house again.

That image is a constant loop in his mind. 

Oliver sits at his desk, staring absently at the screen saver: some tropical island he will never visit. Legs tapping, fingers dancing a jittery pattern on his thigh. If someone had planted a stick of dynamite in his mailbox and Oliver had held it in his hand, watching the wick burn down to detonation - that would be less nerve-rattling.

This?

What’s next? Will another kid pop out from behind a stone? Or a whole mob of small people accosts him, like some sort of Lilliputian night terror?

A boy in the shed. 

Since the incident, Oliver’s nose is always clean. His hands are never idle. Still, they refuse to leave him alone. 

It was a mistake to move back to South Hill. In a city, he could hide in anonymity. If he weren’t such a coward, he’d leave the safety of his grandmother’s unconditional acceptance. That’s a rare gift in this world. Not one Oliver can easily forfeit.

After he arrived, the first attacks were no big deal. Eggs on the siding, toilet paper in the trees, mailbox repeatedly batted off its post. Annoying school-kid pranks that could happen to anyone. They happen to Oliver because he painted a target on his own back. 

He brought this torture on himself. There’s no one else to blame. Not even the goddamn boy who thought it would be funny, or brave, or impressive to sleep in his shed.

Shiver to think.  
This level of stress requires a midnight run. If that doesn’t work, a couple of Klonopin. 

After a few hours of swallowing thick spit, Oliver trudges down the stairs, past Annie in front of the TV with a beer can balanced on her knee. The (unloaded) shotgun is laid out on the sofa.

“Hey, honey.”

For his grandmother’s sake, he flashes a weary smile that can’t compete with reruns of her old crush, Pat Sajak. She doesn't even look up.

Oliver stands at the backdoor, surveys the yard, whispers a pep talk to himself before he steps outside. The kid is not going to come back. Probably won a ten dollar bet. There’s work to do. Go outside.

A final deep breath and he dives through the screen door.

While he’s thinning his carrots, the Fed Ex truck arrives. Oliver stands, drops his gloves in the dirt, and jogs up to the house. 

He leaves his muddy shoes by the back door and jogs through. It’s after 3 PM and Annie’s asleep in her La-Z-Boy to Bob Barker’s lullaby of, “come on down.”

The old girl sure has slowed down a lot over the last year since Oliver’s arrival. She’s still a firecracker, though. He peels the can from her hand and tosses a quilt over her legs. 

Then, he collects his wares from the front porch. The monthly haul: five lbs. bag of flour, rice, and a big box of salt. Other staples. His fall seedlings and bulbs will arrive within the next few days.

Oliver quietly puts away his groceries. He’s reaching into the cabinet over the sink when a movement through the window catches him cold. Not a bird or a squirrel.

A big shadow. 

A second glimpse and his pulse begins banging away at his temples. 

That boy - the shed invader - is helping himself to a ripe fig. 

The jar of vanilla slips from Oliver’s hand and clangs noisily in the sink. He grips the counter, composes himself, and then walks to the back door. 

A glance at his grandmother. A choice not to grab her gun. 

All Oliver needs is a headline stating that he held a gun in some kid’s face. 

Trespassing is illegal, but so are other things. 

He could let the boy eat his fill and pray that he goes away after that. But this kid is like a lion with a taste for human flesh. He keeps coming back. Whether it’s for figs or to impress his buddies, it has to end. 

Oliver steps onto the back porch in his socks, a chill coursing through his body despite the warm breeze. The boy sees him and freezes. For a moment, they simply regard each other. 

Growling worked earlier, but Oliver hasn’t got the nerve for it.

“I know about you,” the boy calls across the yard. 

That’s likely true. Anyone with a modicum of tech savvy could find Oliver’s name, photo, and convictions. 

The first time Oliver saw himself on the monster registry, the blood had flooded his head and threatened to explode his skull. There he was, listed among the band of brutal brothers: like so many werewolves, vampires, and skinwalkers. Kind of like an online high school yearbook, all full of mugshots: rapists and pedophiles. There was Oliver’s profile, right where it belonged. 

“They say you and your grandmother eat little kids. Drink their blood and stuff.”

How does the defendant respond?

“Is that true?” The kids asks, “Do you drink kids’ blood?”

Oliver blinks. The world swirls in one direction. His head spins on the opposite axis. A little boy stands a few yards away, asking Oliver to drink his blood. 

“I don’t think so, though. That’s not it, is it?”

The boy approaches. Oliver stands his ground, even as the liquid in his veins hardens like cooled lead. The boy stops at the foot of the steps and the breeze carries his scent the rest of the way. 

sweet summer sweat  
beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy  
watch out boy, he’ll chew you up.

There’s a jukebox in Oliver’s brain playing twenty songs at once.

“You like to touch kids.”

Record scratch.

“You like to do stuff with them. Right?”

The boy’s voice is a symphony of waves crashing against Oliver’s eardrums.

“That’s what I thought,” the kid says and lifts one foot to the bottom step. “I know you’re special needs or something, but I think you can understand me.”

To qualify as special needs, one would require brain matter. At present, there’s nothing between Oliver’s ears but thick, pureed soup. His fingers and toes tingle. His tongue is thick and heavy.

“Here’s what you’re going to do…” 

The kid stands two steps below. Too near. Too small. So stupid.

“You’re going to teach me how to make vegetables grow,” he says. “Then you’re going to show me sex stuff.”


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, so, none of that was planned. The words vomited come out, unscripted, like most of the garbage that spews out of Elio’s mouth. His tongue cooks up these masterpieces without bothering to filter them through his brain. The only intention had been to convince this retard to let him hang out in the yard. That was the whole plan.

By the way, this ogre isn’t as ugly as Elio remembered.

He’s not really ugly at all.   
Actually, he's kind of, incredibly good looking, which is weird. Why would a guy like this need to go after little kids? He could get any girl he wanted.

He is freakishly huge, though. Elio’s memory got that right. Like 7 feet. Maybe 8. As if nature put all of its energy into making him a mammoth and forgot to add a properly functioning brain. The anti-Hawkings.

There’s probably a law against messing with people who have brain disorders. What Elio should do now is turn around and go home. This was incredibly stupid, even for him.

The gigantic, mute idiot turns and lumbers back into his house leaving the backdoor wide open. Elio looks back at the garden. 

Is he supposed to follow this guy into this house?  
Is that it?  
Is leaving the door open a yes?

Wait. What even did Elio ask?  
Vegetables and sex.   
Seriously?

_Are you insane?_

But also…   
It kind of makes sense. 

There is nothing offered in that hick school that’s going to be useful to him as an adult. Finding the area of isosceles triangles, the French Revolution, Pluperfect conjugation.

Beyond this screen door, there’s the prospect of a real-world education. Knowledge a person can actually use.   
Gardening and sex should be mandatory courses in every school. And not this “family life education” bullshit, but real, practical, hands-on information. Not anatomy and physiology. Teachers doing it on desks. Or at least a Porno appreciation class. 

Besides being uncommonly good-looking, this guy has huge hands. He must have huge everything. And a simple mind for Elio to mold - like a golem. 

This guy is basically Lennie from Of Mice and Men. Luckily, Elio's smarter than the average mouse.  
If there are enough noodles in there, maybe Elio can teach this lummox to read. That seems like a fair trade. 

Holy shit. This is psycho.

But what the hell? It's better than going home.

Elio takes a final, deep breath and enters the dim, moldy house. Then he follows his new student/teacher up the squeaky wooden stairs.


	9. BOY IN THE HOUSE

The boy follows into the house, through the living room, up the stairs.  
Oliver lets the child enter his bedroom, and then locks his door blocking the exit. The kid could scramble through the window, but a fall from the second floor would result in a certain bone-break. He makes no move to flee.

They don’t teach you to deal with this kind of situation in the state-sponsored psych sessions. Upon discharge, Oliver received the canned advice to stay avoid schools and playgrounds. A lot of good that’s done him. If the big bad wolf is trying to go vegan and a little porker comes knocking on his door, who’s to blame for what happens next?

No. It isn’t like that.  
Oliver does not want this child. He wants this child to leave. 

If a neighbor sees him in the yard talking to a little boy, he’s toast. If anyone saw the boy enter the house, he's scrambled eggs. Oliver is standing across the room from a loaded weapon. 

It would be so easy to end this. The child is a foot smaller. A third of Oliver’s weight. His voice squeaks when asks, “Do you understand what I said?”

When Oliver was a boy, his grandmother taught him to break a chicken’s neck and how to skin a possum and neatly dismember it. It’s been a long time, but once you know how and which tools help crack apart joints, it's like riding a bike.

That’s all there is to it. He’s going to wind up having to kill this kid.

Oliver never wanted to kill anyone before.  
That’s not entirely true, but this is different. He’d rather avoid it, but can’t see a better way.

“Can you speak?” The kid asks.

He wants to learn about growing things? Let him learn from beneath the ground. A small smile plays on Oliver’s lips at his death-black inside joke. 

Burying the parts under the plants would be good for the soil. No one would ever find a trace. Possibly, even no one would miss him. The boy’s clothes are dirty. Hair unwashed and greasy. There’s even mud on his face.

“What are you, autistic?”

A bright child that no one gives a damn about. Initially, Oliver thought this was a stunt, a dare to prove himself to a band of bored hooligans. Now, he’s not so sure.  
If it were so, the boy will have earned his stripes just by entering the yard. Extra points for making it into the ogre’s house. No one other than Oliver’s grandmother has seen this bedroom in 15 years. 

The only other person would have been Carl. Who else was ever in his room back then? 

The boy makes a step to pass and Oliver blocks his way. “If I let you go, will you stay away?”

The boy’s eyes widen, but he calmly counters with, “If you don’t do what I say, I’ll tell everyone you did. And they’ll believe me. You know they will. These people hate you. They’re all looking for a reason to set fire to your ass.”

He plops in Oliver’s swivel chair as if it was a throne, and has the nerve to spins.

One hand around that spindly throat. A firm squeeze. Two minutes. That’s all it would take.  
Very easy.

The doorknob rattles. Oliver's heart halts as Annie knocks. 

“You left the door swinging wide open, Ollie. Any kind of critter could crawl in here.”

"Sorry."  
Oliver freezes until her footsteps scuffle down the hall. 

“Don’t act like it’s some hardship,” the kid says loud enough to be heard. “We both know you're into it. Just teach me, then I’ll go.”

Is this part of the bet? Psychologically terrorize Oliver completely. Amazingly, none of these brats have tried this before. Or maybe this one is the first one brave enough to follow through. See how close to the edge they can push the madman.

With a sigh, Oliver pins his back to the door. “What do you want to know?”

“First of all, your garden. How did you do that?” 

He'd started his garden out of necessity.  
In this town, Oliver can't shop in peace. The first time he visited the grocery store, people recognized him. They’d shouted and spat and eventually graduated to hurling cans. 

There are delivery services and CSAs, but there’s no controlling the quality. 

He’d grown his garden through trial and error. Order seeds. Plant. See what grows. You can read a hundred organic gardening books and find one tip that works. It all depends on your soil, sunlight, timing, pests, luck. 

The kid stops spinning the chair. “And then, like… you know.”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do," he says. "Whatever you got arrested for.”


	10. Chapter 10

It’s a falling down mess in this place house. Cave-dark. And it smells like a wet dog. The paint is chipped and the warped wood floors squeak.  
Not Elio’s problem, but you can’t unnotice something.  
In comparison to the rest of the house, Oliver's room is tidy. Nowhere near luxury's lap, though.

“So, you’re not retarded?”

“That’s disrespectful.” The ogre grits the words between his teeth.

“Well, everyone thinks you are.”

The guy barely blinks. Just towers like a totem pole with a man’s head on top. The closer Elio gets, the freaking huger this guy gets. Snap-a-kid-like-a-twig huge.

“And you kind of act like it,” Elio says. “Doesn’t matter if you’re retarded or not. My conditions stand. You show me stuff or I’ll tell them you did.”

The guy - Oliver (his full name and DOB are on the offender registry) stares past Elio out of the window.

“What did you do anyway? The site just says sex with a minor. Like how old were they? Are you into like really little kids? Was it a boy or a girl? Hello? Dude, I’m talking to you."

The silence is suddenly three times as creepy, knowing there’s nothing wrong with the guy’s brain. Oliver points to a thin bookshelf beside his bed and then leaves the room. 

On all three shelves, there are books on organic gardening. Elio turns up his nose, but, eventually sits on the bed and opens one. It’s better than the useless crap they teach in school. Who the hell cares about mitochondria?

Elio skims the pages, studying the captions under the colorful images of seasonal veg. A juicy sliced blue tomato breaks the camel’s back of his hunger.

He slinks back down the dusty, creaking stairs, outside, and finds Oliver in the back yard, kneeling in the dirt on the other far side of the shed.

“Hey.” Elio kicks his boot. “What do you have to eat around here?”

“Listen, boy—“

“My name is Elio.”

Oliver sits on his haunches, hands on his knees. “The woman in the house. Did she see you?”

“The old lady? No. Should I go ask her?”

“She’s my great grandmother and I … don’t want her to see you.”

Elio glances at the house and scoffs. According to rumor, that old woman shot a kid and cooked him. That garbage came from the same genius minds who said Oliver is a blood-drinking troll. 

Oliver wipes dirt off a thinning carrot and hands it over with unsolicited advice: “You should go home.”

Elio wipes the thing off on his jeans and has a bite. Tastes like dirt. He points at the tree he’d been eating from earlier. “What are those?”

“Figs,” Oliver answers, returning to his digging. “If you go over there you’re in direct line of sight to the kitchen window and two cameras. Please, don’t.”

With a sigh, he peels off his gloves, crosses the yard, and returns with a handful of figs. “I will teach you what I know about gardening. Then you leave.”

“That wasn’t the deal, man.”

Oliver stands still, staring blankly - his retard impression is strong. 

Elio cuts him some slack, in case he is part dull. “But we can start with the gardening.”

Already back on his knees in the dirt, Oliver speaks softly but clearly, “The mistake most bit farmers make is planting the same crops over and again. It’s not good for the land or the crops.”

“I didn’t ask for an ecology lesson.” Elio tosses the green part of the carrot into the grass. “How do you make stuff grow?”

Oliver goes silent like a switch has been flipped. 

“I’m just saying. Do I really need to know all that? You put the seed in the ground, you water it. Sunlight happens. Rain. What kind of chemicals do you use?”

Oliver doesn’t reply, but Elio’s stomach does. 

Oliver stands and disappears into the house. Five minutes later, he returns with a butter and cheese sandwich on thick, dark bread. 

Whatever words of praise Elio was going to say get swallowed in his heathenish haste. When he notices Oliver watching, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The ogre diverts his eyes.

“Do you think I’m cute?” Elio asks. “Am I what you like?”

The response is a blank gaze.

“No. Okay.”

Oliver starts toward the door, but Elio catches his arm with his free hand.

“Hey. Not acting like a retard 101: respond when people talk to you.”

Oliver peels the hand off his arm. 

“Ow, you freak.”

The creep releases Elio’s hand with a burning glare.

“Did you, like, rape someone? It would say if you killed someone, right?”

Oliver looks away with a heavy burdened sigh. Probably, he did kill someone and doesn’t want to confess about it. 

“It was an accident, right? Like, you snatched her and fucked her and then you were going to bring her back but like she wouldn’t stop crying so you—“ 

Without another word, Oliver returns to his work.

“Is that close?”

Oliver retreats to the shed. When he returns, he places some kind of dirt fork thing in Elio’s hand. 

“What even is this?”

“It’s called a trowel.” Oliver pantomimes a motion and points to an area of ground. 

For hours, they work in silence, stopping only for another meal and to piss in the grass. When dusk approaches, Oliver puts away his tools, “Go home.”

“I’ll sleep in the shed.”

“No.”

“I’ve done it before," Elio says. "It didn’t kill me.”

Not returning to his father’s house has been a revelation. The only question is why he didn’t do this before.

Oliver shakes his head and goes inside.  
That guy seriously has to work on his communication skills. He’s like a gorgeous Shrek.

Elio, the ass, cozies up in the shed.

Cozy is an exaggeration. The first night, he’d stayed here out of desperation. This, now, is stupid - laying with his head on a bag of grass seed. There are probably mice and crickets and who knows what else in this thing. The night slips from dark to darker with all the night bugs chirping outside. It’s not nearly as warm as it was last night. 

Elio pulls his arms into the sleeves of his t-shirt, hugging himself and counting backward from 100. That’s supposed to help you fall asleep. 

It works, until the first drop falls on his head.  
Outside, it's like cat, dogs, and goats pounding on the tin roof of the shed. Inside, the raindrops aren’t leaking as rapidly, but they’re landing on Elio’s shoulder. 

There’s nowhere for him to move, because the shed is crammed full of tools and stuff. His choices are to sit here and be drenched by morning or go out into the downpour now and get drenched all at once. There’s always the possibility that Oliver locked him in the shed, but that concern is short-lived.

With a barrage of profanity, Elio bursts through the doors into the rain. He storms through the storm, collects a palmful of pebbles, and hurls them at the siding beside Oliver’s window. At least, he’s pretty sure it’s Oliver’s window. It could also be the bathroom or the old lady’s window.

It takes a full five minutes before the window opens and Oliver whisper-shouts down through the rain, “Go home, Elio.”

“Open the door.” 

“Go home.”

“Let me in, Oliver. It’s fucking pouring.”

The window slams shut. Fine. He'll sleep on the porch. And if the old lady sees him in the morning, it's Oliver's fault.

Elio stands with his back to the door and lets out a long, loud, soggy sigh.


	11. BOY IN THE ROOM

The boy is standing on the porch like a drenched puppy with the rain falling in sheets in front of him. Annie is asleep in her LaZBoy with the TV gently humming. She doesn’t even stir as Oliver sneaks the kid upstairs, into the bathtub. 

“Stay.”

“I’m not a dog, you prick.”

Oliver smirks. Then collects a black garbage bag, a towel, and one of his grandmother’s dresses. 

“Wet clothes in here.”

Elio narrows his eyes like it’s a challenge. “I’m not wearing that.”

There’s no point arguing. Either he stays wet or he accepts the charity. Oliver waits in the hall until the boy exits the bathroom wearing the muumuu. The kid shoves the bag at him and traipses to Oliver’s bedroom with his nose pointed at the ceiling, despite wearing old lady’s clothing.

For a while, he stands by the door with his damp hair dripping over his eyes. Lean, pale legs, bare feet, fidgeting while Oliver stares. 

Staring is impolite.

Oliver shakes off the bewilderment, layers blankets, creating a pallet under the desk, much as he would for a stray mutt. Then he crawls under the blankets on his bed and extinguishes the lamp. Only a few seconds pass before the kid tugs at his covers. 

“Let me in, man. I’m freezing.”

The audacity is stirring. With a hand in the center of Elio's bird chest, Oliver holds him away easily. The slightest shove sprawls him on his ass, blinking up through the moonlit room.

“Go in that corner and lie down, or I will call the police.”

Elio stands, dusts off the dress, and slumps on the foot of Oliver’s bed. 

“No, you won’t,” he mumbles without energy or conviction.

He draws back the blankets, uncovering Oliver’s feet. Oliver curls his toes, but subdues the urge to kick. 

“Damn. Are these, like, size 14 or something? How the hell tall are you anyway?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Like 7 feet, right? Was the kid smaller than me?”

A single kick knocks the boy back onto the floor. Oliver pulls the blankets over his head. Hell's torture couldn't be worse.

“Or was it a string of kids? Like you couldn’t get enough, so you kept going out, hunting them down … Are you going to tell me when I get it right?”

If Oliver held his pillow over this noisome child's face, this would be over in two minutes. He’d thrash a bit, like a fly bashing against a glass window. Then, there would be the disposal of the body.  
Easy.

Not exactly good night thoughts.

Elio clacks around on Oliver's keyboard, awakening the computer and casting monitor glow into the room. It's password protected. Oliver rolls over to face the wall. May the devil take this kid overnight. 

Annie used to tell a story like that. Children who wouldn't go right to sleep would be spirited away by a demon. If only.  
Eventually, the boy pulls the covers from the floor and curls up between Oliver’s feet. Like a rescue pup. Too warm, but finally, silent.


	12. BOY IN THE BED

Elio wakes in a strange bed. Not uncomfortable, just firmer, way bigger, and with a warm, deep smell, like nesting in the belly of the earth.  
Perfect for wallowing.

He rolls over to the view: the back of Oliver’s desk chair. Three monitors of gibberish on his desk. Huge hands spidering over an ergonomic keyboard. Elio lays quiet. Watching his fingers.

If Oliver knows he’s awake, he doesn’t respond. No surprise. The guy is stone. Whatever he did to that kid was probably premeditated and cruel. Possibly weird.

Nothing in this room gives him away. Not that you'd expect posters of naked children, but there’s only chipping pale green paint on the walls.

It's hard to tell what kind of work Oliver’s doing. Looks incredibly boring. Numbers. Symbols. Nothing worth looking at.

It’s still pouring outside. Rain battering the window. The mud-grey sky casting this room dim and oddly cozy. Never leave the bed weather.  
Today, there will be no school. None of his dad’s crap.  
Maybe he'll stay snugged up in Oliver’s bed all day. If the ogre tries to make him leave, he’ll scream. Undignified, but it’ll work. 

Eventually, though, nature plucks Elio's bladder. He sits up. Stretches. Yawns louder than necessary. Still no reaction from the computer chair.

A plate of eggs and greasy vegetables are waiting on the side table. Elio scarfs down a bite and speaks while he’s chewing, “Is your grandma around? I need to piss.”

“You also need a shower,” Oliver replies without turning around.

Elio sniffs his pit and doesn’t argue.


	13. Chapter 13

Oliver checks the coast. Deeming it clear, he ushers Elio to the bathroom and shows him how to work the shower. He opens the tiny window above the toilet - the closest to ventilation this old house has. 

On the way back to his room, Annie takes the top step and squints. “What are you doing?”

Oliver’s mouth falls open, but the lie won’t form.

“Why do you have the water wasting, Oliver?" she shrieks. "If you’re going to take a shower, go do it now.”

Oliver nods and darts back to the bathroom before his grandmother reaches the door. He brings the skeleton key inside, locks the door, and stands with his back to the shower. The mirror is already foggy and the kid is humming softly to himself. 

He should be silent. Oliver doesn't sing in the shower. 

When the water stops, he steels himself, eyes trained on the tiles. The hooks scrape against the rod as Elio draws back the shower curtain. 

“You can look.”

Oliver halts his breath.

“Look at me,” Elio says, and then, louder. “Oliver.”

After scrubbing a palm down his pained grimace, Oliver obeys and glares at the boy's soaked and bloom-red face. He shakes his head and stares at the mold clinging to the ceiling instead. 

“Well? What do you think?”

Oliver’s thoughts, in order:

Skinny. 

Pale. 

Face of a young god. 

Gorgeous dark curls dripping into haunting eyes. 

He has no opinion about the yellowing bruises on Elio’s arms and torso. But he's not surprised. 

_Carl always had bruises - deep plum, dirt-brown, piss yellow bruises. Usually on his body, but sometimes, on his face and limbs._

_Always. From the first time they met._

_When Oliver was still a tiny thing, Carl’s mama showed up at the front door with her boy clinging to her leg. Older than Oliver, and crying like his mother._

_Annie let them in without explanation. Then, she got her rifle._

_She slept on the sofa - or maybe she stayed up all night. In retrospect, that’s likely what she did: kept watch. The great grandfather Oliver never met had been a marine and trained his little girl as if she’d been an only son. If they’d have accepted women in Annie's day, she’d have earned her own Semper Fi tattoo._

_Carl’s mother slept in the bed where Annie never did. Even back then, Oliver's grandmother fell asleep watching her shows: Lucy, Mr. Ed, Andy Griffith. Carl got the left side of Oliver’s single bed. There was plenty of space for his 6-year-old self and his 12-year-old guest._

_As those visits turned into a weekly affair, the boys’ quiet uncertainty blossomed into soft talks about ninjas and superheroes. They also played games._

_Mostly House._

_House was Carl's game. Carl was the man, Oliver was the woman. The man’s job was to go to work, wiggle around on top of the woman and yell, shove and hit her when she didn't do what the man said._

_Some nights, Carl’s dad would show up at the door, yelling. Carl would drag him into the closet and cover both of their heads with a blanket. Both hearts pounding loud enough for the other one to hear._

_“W - w- what’s he going to going to going to do?” Oliver always stammered, but it was unbearable under stress._

_Carl grabbed his hand and softly said, “He’s going to kill us all.”_

_But the closest Carl's father ever got to killing them all was the night Oliver ran downstairs to tell his grandmother about the funny smell - like when you put gas in the truck._

_Carl was asleep. Annie had been snoring to the sweet sound of Pat Sajak’s lullaby. She woke with a start, sniffed the air and sent Oliver back to bed._

_Instead, he kept silent and stalked in his grandmother’s shadow as she carried her rifle all the way up to an attic window. He remained inside as Annie climbed onto the roof and fired a single shot._

_Nobody died that night, but an ambulance took Carl’s daddy to the hospital. Same as always, after a few days, Carl and his mama went home._


	14. Chapter 14

When he’s dry and back in his stupid dress, Elio creeps behind Oliver back to the bedroom. He alternates between watching Oliver work and watching the rain. After a while, Oliver leaves him alone. Elio pulls out each squeaky drawer: socks, underwear, pants, shirts.  
Everything in its place. Nothing incriminating.

He sniffs a pair of Oliver's boxers, but they're useless freshly washed. 

When Oliver returns, he brings a package marked Express.  
Grey sweatpants and a t-shirt with a shark on it. Nothing Elio would usually wear, but they’re his size and anything is better than old lady gear. 

“You could have just washed the other ones.”

“We don’t have a dryer."

Probably smart not hanging them up where anyone could see.

Elio steps into the jeans. “Who doesn't have a dryer?”

“It’s not sustainable.”

Elio scoffs. "Okay, Greta Thunberg."

“They generate more CO2 —“ 

“Whatever.” 

Oliver turns his back while Elio dresses. Like he hasn’t already seen the goods. Elio opens his mouth to call him a prude, but a squeak escapes before Oliver jerks him into a headlock with a huge, meaty paw over his mouth. His massive body is pressed against Elio’s shirtless back. 

He’d bite a chunk out of the guy’s paw, but then his instant boner argues against it.

So, is this how Oliver does it? Just grabs kids? Yanks them off playgrounds. Elio moans and Oliver shakes him once.

“Shhh.”

There is a sound in the hallway. Warbling that turns out to be singing and a swoosh that’s probably a broom. When Elio gets the memo, Oliver lets him go with a slight shove. 

They both stand perfectly still waiting until the sound passes. Oliver doesn’t want to get caught raping a kid in his bedroom and Elio didn’t realize until right now how completely ready he is for this beast.

It was theoretical until a few seconds ago. But the way Oliver grabbed him sent a blast of electricity through his system - adrenaline, testosterone, something. Elio has no idea which hormone, but tendrils of heat are still snaking through his limbs. He palms his crotch. Mouth hanging open. Heart beating a rumba against his ribs. 

He takes a step toward Oliver, but a huge, hot hand holds him away. A hand that spans from Elio's nipples to his navel. A hand that could pin him down while the other one wrestles the pants around his knees, torques him sideways, or folded his knees up to his ears. Or both hands could flip him onto his stomach... 

Elio uses both hands to grab Oliver’s wrist and bring the hand to his dick. Oliver yanks away and pushes him onto the bed. But he doesn’t dive on top, or even make a move toward him. He just watches the door.

Elio leans up on his elbows. Overheated, lightheaded, harder than he’s ever been.

The sound is gone, the old lady is gone. Oliver’s worried about nothing. 

Then again, maybe not nothing.  
Who knows how fast that old hag will call the cops if she finds Elio in the room? What would Oliver do then? Bash in her skull? Bludgeon them botth and run?

Just being here in this room is breaking the law. And somehow that’s even hotter than the whole crazy of it. Oliver is twice Elio's size. Probably twice his age. He could literally crush the life out of him. Why the hell is that so hot?

“How old are you?”

Oliver turns and squints like Elio is speaking a foreign language. 

“How. Old. Are. You?”

It says on the registry, but it’s not like Elio memorized all of the guy’s personal information. Maybe he should have. 

Oliver whispers, “Twenty-nine. Please shut up.”

Twice Elio’s age plus three. He still doesn’t know how old the kid is that Oliver…  
He still has no idea what Oliver did. Why is that so fucking hot?  
Or is it just Oliver?

And how can a guy be hot who keeps staring at the door as if his gramma is going to bust in and give him a spanking?

“Why the hell do you live with your grandmother?”

That clueless moron face again - the one that must have won him the title of Retard. Disrespectful or not, Oliver earns it. 

“If you want to meet girls your own age, you’re going to have to like, make some changes. I’m just saying. ‘Cause otherwise, there’s no explanation why you’re not swimming in pussy.” 

Oliver’s eyebrows raise. “Are you giving me dating advice?”

Is that the shadow of a smile?  
It makes Elio almost want to die. This guy belongs in Hollywood. Why the hell is he in Virginia?

“Do you ever leave the house?”

Oliver sits at his desk and types in his password. The monitors spring to life.

“And that. Is fucking annoying.” Elio hops up and knocks the mouse on the floor. “I’m talking to you. Why do you just shut down like that? It’s no wonder you can’t get someone your own age.”

Oliver has this glare. His eyes go hooded and dark enough to believe that he'd do the most heinous thing you can think of. He keeps giving Elio chances to leave, but one day, maybe he won't anymore. Maybe, when whatever happened to that kid, Oliver just snapped.  
What would it be like on the receiving end of Oliver’s worst?


	15. Chapter 15

Girls Oliver's age are women. And they've never been a problem.  
At least not in the sense of attracting them. They swarm around him like flies on shit.

As soon as Oliver left his grandmother’s house, he discovered a magnet beneath his skin that drew women to him effortlessly. Of course, he had no idea how to talk to them, but that wasn’t a problem since they like to talk so much. They assumed him silent and strong. At least the first part is true. Many of them called him perfect.

Too perfect.  
Dhalia always said.

“Oliver, how can you be so perfect?”

Then there was the look on her face when the police filed into the apartment and started reciting Miranda rights over her spinach and pine nut salad.

“Oliver, what’s going on?”

The one time she visited him in prison, begging him to deny the allegations.

“Just say you didn’t do it. I need to hear you say that, Oliver. Oliver?”

Her conspicuous absence throughout the trial.  
His engagement ring in an envelope mailed to the prison. No letter. No note.

Couldn’t blame her.

Like clockwork, at 7, Annie calls Oliver to dinner. He shuts down his computer and faces the kid who has been laying on his bed playing with himself for most of the afternoon.

He taps his knee with one finger.  
Mental note: bring up some magazines - Reader’s Digest and Sear’s catalogues may not be the kid’s idea of entertainment, but nobody is making him stay here.

Steak and potatoes. Both burnt, as usual. Mesquite is a joke inside these walls. Like every night, Oliver thanks his Grandmother for cooking. At her request, he says Grace. Then, he eats in no more or less silence than usual.

“What’s going on with you?”

Oliver blinks, fork in hand with the charred meat dangling between the spokes.

“Just—“

Lying to Annie never worked.  
She might believe him because he never tried it. The words never got past his tongue.

“It’s all this damn rain, isn’t it? Got you cranky.”

Oliver nods.

“You know what you need to do is go out of town for a bit,” she says. “When’s the last time you just packed up and went away for a few days?”

They both know the answer: not since he moved in two years ago.

The Chesapeake Detention Center sit him out and his grandmother was gracious enough to take him back in. With far more baggage than he'd taken when he left.

Two weeks after Oliver returned, the newspaper did a remarkably well-researched outline of his life from his scholarship to MIT at 17 to his inauspicious return, focusing mainly on the details of the conviction.

The following day there was an armed protest outside of the house. Oliver stood at the window watching people shout and raise signs:

“BURN IN HELL”  
“NOT WELCOME”  
"MONSTER"

As far as Oliver was concerned, they all had a right to be concerned for their kids. His grandmother loaded her gun and marched onto the front porch. When the yard was cleared, Annie reentered the house and simply said, “You don’t deserve this.”

But she didn’t know what he deserved because she never asked. Maybe she’d read the newspapers. Maybe she hadn’t.

The following morning, there was a pile of human excrement in the driveway. The morning after that, there was a shit on their front porch.

The following day, before dawn, Annie shot a teenager in his ass with one 25mm caliber round. While the boy laid in the grass howling and clutching his rear, Oliver commandeered the gun, removed the remaining ammunition, then went inside to call the police.

His grandmother was arrested, but ultimately only paid a fine for reckless endangerment, considering that the boy was trespassing and defiling private property. Neither she nor Oliver has left the house since.

In the weeks that followed, they erected the 8-foot fences around the perimeter and installed the camera system.

How can you begrudge people the right to hate someone who did what he did? Even that idiot kid shitting in the yard. It was Annie who didn’t deserve what Oliver had brought on her. And what would she say if she knew he had a teenaged boy in his room right now? Directly above their heads, laying in Oliver's bed with his hands down his pants.

Before the trial, Oliver’s attorney had flirted with an insanity plea. It wouldn't stick. Oliver is a large man with a quiet manner that often unsettles people, but he's not clinically insane. Although, keeping Elio in his room would surely qualify as unhinged.

Annie repeats the suggestion, “You need to get away for a bit, Oliver. It’s not good for you to stay cooped like —“

She stops speaking, but Oliver can hear the rest of her thought:

... like a criminal. An animal.

Annie has never once condemned him. Then again, she doesn't know what he did. 


	16. BOY ON THE SURFACE

Elio is sitting cross-legged on the bed when Oliver enters, tosses a deck of cards, and returns to his desk. 

“Are you going to play with me?”

Oliver swivels, wearing that aggro look. “Play solitaire.”

“How?”

The expression shifts to disbelief, but it’s true. Some people play solitaire on computers and phones, but it’s a loser’s game. Elio is shuffling physical cards, waiting for an adult to teach him play an old people’s game - IRL. 

Oliver shakes his head and goes back to his monitors. 

“Oliver. Oliver Oliver Oliver Oliver Oliver.”

His scowl has deepened from vicious to savage.

Elio nearly swallows the words, “Don’t ignore me.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to show me.”

Oliver sucks his teeth, glances at his precious screens, but finally moves to the edge of the bed. He snatches the deck from Elio’s hand and begins shuffling. His huge hands are improbably swift like he spent half his life in Vegas. Or maybe he learned it somewhere else.

“How long were you in jail?

No answer. Oliver shuffles and distrubtes, laying cards in front of Elio. 

“It’s a question, Oliver. Normal people answer questions. With words.”

“Two years.”

Elio schools his face. A reply was unexpected. He wants to ask more, but Oliver’s getting that far-off freaky look again. 

“Want to hear a joke?”

“No.”

“Why did the pickle cross the road?”

Tough crowd. Oliver does not crack.  
Elio feeds him the punchline with a flourish: "He relished the chance to go for a walk." 

Oliver shakes his head, but then his reluctant grin is the best thing in this town. 

“That is a very bad joke.”

It is an awful joke. Elio would spend the rest of his life telling horrendous jokes for this tiny reaction.

“What do you get when you cross a pickle and a deer?”

“You know, these are riddles.”

“Do you know the answer?”

Oliver's tiny smile fuels a sunburst in the center of Elio’s chest. He'll either think it's hilarious or get pissed off.

“A dilldoe.”

The chuckle escapes like a small sneeze, but it happened. The slightest chink in that rusty armor. 

Elio gnaws his thumbnail. If he tries the wrong thing, Oliver will retract like a turtle - or snap like one. While Oliver explains the stupid rules to his dumb game, Elio shifts a few inches until their knees bump together. Almost like an accident.  
Almost. 

A soft light flashes behind Oliver’s eyes and he goes silent. Then, he takes a deep breath, puts down the cards, and blinks at his hands. Inside of his soft slippers, his toes are tapping. 

“I know how to play war,” Elio says.

For some reason, Oliver laughs at that, leaning forward and away as if to hide the sunlight of his amusement. Elio strains toward it like a flower. Toward this man who may have tied up little kids before he screwed them or fucked their corpses or whatever. 

Unlawful sexual activity with a minor.  
Could mean anything.

Elio drops a hand on Oliver’s knee and the laughter halts.  
It’s brazen and it’s making him hard.  
Oliver stares at the hand, but doesn’t speak.  
Elio inches closer. 

Would this qualify as unlawful sexual activity?

With the tip of one finger, he strokes a thin line down Oliver’s thigh. Over his sweatpants, but Elio is swallowing sand. Jaw hanging open. Pressing his chest against Oliver’s arm, the contact igniting the full surface of his skin. 

“Will you show me how to kiss?”

“No.”

As Oliver stands, Elio grabs his hand only to be flicked away like a meddlesome bug.

Lunging after him isn’t premeditated. It's a desperate reflexive grasp. Trying to snatch something precious from mid-air before it shatters to the ground. With cruel swiftness, Oliver whirls around and pins Elio against the wall with a forearm under his chin. Bye-bye, air. Adios, boner.  
Elio’s toes barely skim the floor.  
Revelation: Oliver is not hot. He’s dangerous.

Elio is going to die in this room. 

Oliver doesn’t raise his voice, but mashed potato and steak hangs thick on his breath when he repeats, “I said, no.”


	17. Chapter 17

Oliver shouldn’t have let the boy touch him. Sitting on the bed together, playing cards was ill-advised. Touching is verboten and 100% Oliver’s fault. These situations are always the adult's fault.

Also, Oliver should not be strangling a child. Rather than apologize, he vacates the room - pulse pounding and sweat-coated.

Perched on the edge of the tub, he runs his hands through his hair.  
Pull. Yourself. Together.

It’s been nearly two years since Oliver has spoken with anyone other than Annie and his probation officer.

No one has touched him. Or invited him to play cards.  
No one has asked to be kissed.

Is this part of the bet?  
See how much of a mess Oliver is? Shatter him into a hundred million shards on his bathroom floor. Weapon: one finger on his pants leg.

What if it's not a bet? What if the kid is the same?

When Oliver was that age, his grandmother might touch his forehead to watch the hand sail over her own head. “My, you’re stretching up there, Ollie.”

A preacher might pat him on the shoulder in passing and crow, “When are you going to get out there on the field, Oliver?"

Coaches coveted Oliver's size and his strength. He was invited to join the varsity team without even trying out. The idea of all those angry boys running at him, jumping on his back was the stuff of nightmares. Football is stressful enough to watch. Still, his bones expanded like there was Miracle-gro in his stale Cheerios while Carl reached a whopping 5'3" by 11th grade.

Carl. With his perfect hands reaching extremes Oliver wouldn’t have known to explore - inside and out. Fingers, toes, tongue, cock. Like Oliver’s massive body was the last frontier.

For his part, the overgrown boy would lay still as the land - stretched out on his bed. Motionless - until the shivering began. Carl’s salty hand covering his giggles. Dampening the gasps. Oliver chewing his lip to stop the screams. Heaving loudly into the pillow Carl had placed over his face.

On good days, he was the sun and the moon and all the glow-in-the-dark stars on Oliver’s ceiling. Lighting and twinkling across the expanses of his skin. Then there were other days.  
Probing, curious, magical hands became weapons of destruction. Fierce pinching, plucking fingers. Slapping, shoving, punching hands. Cursing. Kicking. Never satisfied until he'd drawn blood and tears.

Oliver curling in his shoulders like a giant armadillo. If he retaliated, he’d hurt his friend. Or lose him.

One weekend afternoon, in the backyard, Oliver's weird untamed behemoth strength had accidentally hurled their baseball into the neighbor’s yard rather than Carl’s mitt. It would have been simple to walk to Mr. Anderson’s and request his ball back, but Carl turned crab-red, stormed across the grass, and began pummeling Oliver’s arm, “You stupid, fucking idiot. What is wrong with you?”

Oliver turned into the beating to take it. Then all at once, Carl stopped.

Annie was dragging him away. “Don’t you come back here until you get some damn help.”

Oliver insides hollowed as Carl flow both middle fingers high.

“Screw you, Annie. And you can fucking die, Oliver.”

Does anyone touch Elio? And how?


	18. Chapter 18

It's nearly an hour later when Oliver returns to the bedroom: freshly washed but in the same clothes. He wafts in a dizzying blend of coconut soap and sweat. 

That combination and Oliver’s silence and being cooped up in this room is a recipe for madness. Elio leaps off the bed and stands behind Oliver’s chair.  
Oliver, who is so good at ignoring that maybe Elio doesn't exist anymore.  
It’s time to go home.  
It would like yanking out his own liver. 

“I’m bored.”

Oliver doesn’t speak or twitch or give any sign he heard. It shouldn’t matter if Oliver hates him. He’s just a stupid, gigantic, child-fucking ogre. Who doesn’t want Elio to touch him. 

That's how big of a loser Elio is. Even the pedophile doesn't want him.  
Maybe he's too old. Or Oliver just likes blond 6-year-old girls. This whole thing is a ridiculous waste. 

Elio sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

“Oliver, I…” Don’t apologize. Only punks apologize. “I need to get out of this room.”

“Then go home.”

Saw that one coming, but it still stings like a slap to the face. 

“Can we go somewhere?”

Finally, Oliver swivels around. It would have been better if he hadn't, because now he's spearing Elio with that hateful gaze. 

“There is no we. I’m not your father. I’m not your friend. You should not be here.”

Every word of that is true. Still, Elio can't stop himself from whining, “Please?”


	19. Chapter 19

Oliver blinks and steadies his breath.

He entered 9th grade 2 years after Carl quit high school and started working at the gas station on Contee Road. While Oliver stay a huge, awkward pariah, Carl kept a constant string of girlfriends. Sometimes, he also found time to go into the woods with Oliver and do whatever. Brother, father, best friend - they never put a title on what they were. 

When Carl was at his worst, he wouldn’t even bother with violence. He’d just ask Oliver, “When’s the last time you saw your mother?”

It was his way of declaring dominance. As if Oliver didn’t know who was king.

It started when they were little kids. Back before Carl’s dad tried to burn down the house with them in it.

“Where’s your mother?” He’d ask.

Oliver had already learned that holding his untrustworthy tongue was his only means of self-defense. Whenever he tried to speak, the words were clear in his head, but they bounced around on his tongue like a rubber ball, refusing to fly free. When he finally managed to spit out what he meant, it was always used against him.

“Don’t you know?” Carl smirked.

No. Oliver did not know. No one had any idea where Debby was. The last time she came into town, she snatched him away from his school playground. Bought Oliver ice cream and sang songs as they walked down the street. It was nice, for a while.

Then, she took him to some stranger’s house and left him there. Lukcily, he knew Grandma Annie's phone number. On the drive home, she kept hissing under her breath how Debby was a “God damn loony.”

Annie never said what kind of crazy.  
It wasn't too bad.  
Debby never hit him. She never yelled. Her singing sounded like magic and she knew a hundred songs.

One time, she bought him a sandwich, led him to a park bench, and never came back. Another time, she forgot him in a museum.

“She’s crazy, right?”

Maybe Carl’s mother told him all about Oliver’s loony mother. Maybe he’d heard it from someone else. Folks always did think crazy is hilarious. Almost as funny as stuttering.

Oliver would bite his lip. Eventually, the mean would ooze out of Carl's system. A few more jabs.

“That’s why you’re retarded, right?”

It was worse than the hitting, what choice was there but to take it? Carl was his only friend. And Carl loved Oliver, sometimes.

“What about your dad?”

Oliver had never seen his dad. Nobody knew who he was. Oliver had Annie.  
And Carl.

Maybe it's the same way for Elio. Maybe all he's got is somebody whose love makes him want to die sometimes.

It’s nearly midnight. Moonless. Still damp, but not raining anymore. This is a mistake, but Oliver is an expert at those.

“Where would we go?”

Elio shrugs. “I don’t care.”


	20. Chapter 20

Literally anywhere.  
At least that’s what he thought.  
Follow Oliver to Earth’s end.

Safe behind him, feet noiseless on damp pavement under pale slivermoon.   
Every now and again, headlights blind them, marring the path as drivers cluelessly witness Elio's death march. 

Like an executioner, Oliver keeps his head down, hoodie covering his face, hands jammed in his pockets. His backpack is stuffed with who knows what. Tools of the trade. Elio quickens his pace to keep up with those impossibly long legs. Oliver casts a giant's shadow whenever they pass under a streetlamp.

At least it's warm. Mist seeps up from the ground. All the world haunted and electric like the surge in Elio’s veins. 

It's a good night to die. What will Oliver do to him first? He hasn’t a spoken since they snuck past his snoring grandmother and her ancient game shows. Is he plotting, or does he already know?

Within an hour, they reach the park. 

Only two days ago, Elio had biked to the plaza, eaten fast food, and then come to this place. He’d caught those teenagers making out and stupidly lurked too close. For science.  
The girl had seen him and shrieked. 

A creep, not an idiot, Elio tried to run, but the guy snagged the bottom of his pants and felled him like a tree.

“Leave him alone, Freddie,” girl's voice shrill and unheeded.

In the waning gibbous moonlight, Freddie hovered over his fresh prey, bearing a striking resemblance to an albino gorilla.

“Hey, you little freak,” he grunted. “You like watching people? That’s what gets you off?”

“Freddie, quit.”

Freddie didn’t quit and his girlfriend stormed away, yelling over her shoulder, “You’re so stupid.” 

The car door creaked opened and slammed shut as Freddie used a fistful of Elio’s shirt to shake and rattle his bones.

“That’s what you like? Huh?” 

“Everybody likes watching" As usual, Elio's mouth shot off without fully appreciating the situation. "Why else do you think porn is a billion-dollar industry, you moron?” 

“Oh, so, you're clever and pretty?”

When Elio’s dad calls him clever, it's not a compliment either. “Think you’re so goddamn clever, boy?”

Freddie’s thumb and fingers delved into the pits of Elio’s cheeks pinching hard enough to force open his jaw.

“How about I put something in your smart, little mouth?”

Empty promises, you piece of shit. There was no way he'd do it with his girlfriend sitting in the car. That didn’t stop the idea from hooking into Elio’s imagination like a fishing barb. Some angry stranger’s dick rammed down his throat. Exactly what he deserves. 

But Freddie smelled like rancid garbage. His breath was choke-worthy. No way his dick-stench was palatable. 

That was the point, right?  
Suffer.  
Take the torture.  
Stench and all. 

The kick happened by reflex. Who knows where Elio's foot connected, but it occupied his captor long enough to clamor to his feet and run.

To Hell with bike and backpack. 

Through the grave-dark woods. Panting and swatting tree-branch-claws out of his face. No clue which way until the forest dumped him on Pine street. 

Halting for a painful few deep breaths before he ran for another eternity.  
Finally, ducked into a yard.  
Oliver’s yard.  
Into Oliver’s shed.  
His house.  
That room.  
Now here again. The starless dark of the forest. No light. No shadows. 

These densely-wooded hills are an ideal spot to make out. Also, a fine place to murder an annoying kid and dump the corpse. Maybe feel it up first or fuck its face. Maybe suffocate it on your gargantuan prick. 

Is that how you want to die?  
No point chickening out now.  
Not too late. Could always turn around and haul ass.  
Shut up. This is happening. 

How many minutes before Elio becomes a corpse?  
A mother's memory. How long after that before the body starts to stink?  
Who’ll find it? Or will animals and bugs and stuff eat him?

The worms go in, the worms go out… 

Oliver won’t say, "go home" again.


	21. Chapter 21

Elio is following a convicted criminal into the woods at night.  
A convicted sex offender.  
A man accused of being attracted to children.  
Elio is aware of all this and he is choosing to follow Oliver into the woods. What does that say about this kid?

Is this blind trust or a death wish? Or both.  
What does it show about Oliver, that he lets him?

No one knows where Elio is.  
No one has seen them together. It would be easy to end this now. That might even be the wisest choice. The boy won't leave him alone. What is the alternative? Let him live in Oliver's bedroom forever? A mercy killing is remarkably easy. How many squirrels and possums had Oliver quietly bashed after Annie's first shot failed to bring them all the way down? Easy, too, to leave no traces. As far as anyone else knows, the kid vanished.  


This foray into the wilderness at night with a young boy.  
How else could it possibly end? Certainly not well.

Although he hasn't been to this precise spot in years, Oliver marches through the dim forest as if guided by sonar.

When Elio sees the leanto, his face brightens. The moonshine isn’t as bright as the streetlights, but Oliver’s eyes have adjusted enough to see him clearly. Bone pale skin reflecting like the earth’s satellite. His delight and awe are nearly worth the ridiculous risk of this trek.

“Whoa. This is awesome, man!" Elio rushes over. "Did you know this was here?”

The summer before Oliver went off to MIT, he and Carl had camped here in the mountains. They’d spent all afternoon grunting and filthy, dragging fallen logs into place. Chopping notches into the foundational tree. Stacking and arranging, braiding a thatch roof the way Annie taught them.  
Back-breaking, life-affirming work. They’d spent all night getting even dirtier on the ground in their makeshift hut.  
A monument to a simpler - not simpler - time.

Twelve years later, the wood is worm-eaten, but still standing. Their dugout firepit is still black. Certainly, someone has used it in the meantime and shored up the walls. Wind doesn't work so precisely. 

Oliver is even taller than he’d been back then. Bends in half to enter. The floor is freshly laid with pine needles. Damp but not wet. How many young hikers, weary campers, lucky lovers have found this place?

Oliver was never a scout, but is always well-prepared. He sets Elio to the task of kindling collector. The boy sulks, but complies. Between his gathered sticks, old newspapers, and accelerant gel (atrocious for the environment but fulfills on its promise), Oliver ignites a smoky flame. 

Despite the evening's warmth, Elio holds out his hands to soak in the heat. It's a universal gesture of worship. In return, the embers illuminate his face with an immortal glow.

The night sings. Green-free air alive with clicks and hoots of others who are awake, hunting and prey, at this hour. Here is the only place where Oliver breathes deeply. He crosses his ankles near the fire, leans back on one elbow, plucking apart a pinecone. 

“Do you have any friends, Elio?”

The kid shakes his head. He stares into the fire as if there are answers there. 

“Why not?”

Elio sniffs and blinks. Eventually, he answers, “Because I'm a shithead." No argument there. "I don’t know. This one girl likes me. Marcia. She’s pretty, but kind of stupid.” 

Oliver nods. Girls can be vapid, but they own no monopoly on stupidity. 

“What do you really want from me?”

Elio sucks in a profound breath, as if he’s about to execute a slope high dive. Then, he crawls around the fire and smashes into Oliver's face, mouth-first. There's nothing sexual or passionate. Only desperation. With a single, patient hand in the center of his chest, Oliver halts the madness and sits up. 

Elio blinks and gnaws his quivering lips as Oliver holds his face between both hands. His ears have grown cold. Thumbs tracing high, regal cheekbones, Oliver draws the boy close enough to peck his lips.

“Okay?”

Elio nods, eyes closed, lips parted, urging forward for more. 

“Did you get those bruises at home or school?”

The longing on the boy's upturned face snaps to confusion. Then, disgust. He draws away.

Over the next hour, a long silence thickens the air between them while the fire dances and prophesies in its inscrutable crackle.

The bruises aren’t Oliver’s business. This boy isn’t Oliver’s business. That kiss was a sin.  
Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.  
Learned that from Annie, too.  
It never works.

This moment is a felony that could earn Crazy Debbie's retard son a repeat visit to Chesapeake Correctional. This time for a decade. The conditions of Oliver's release were clear: no contact with minors.

A slight wind kicks the fire into higher gear. Temptation and evil leave Oliver warmer still. He's uncomfortably close to a flame of his own making. Ready for Hell? 

“His name was Justin,” Oliver speaks just loud enough to hear himself. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”


End file.
